This is a brief one-shot from "The Previously Unreleased Files of Boleyn". It was written after Cool Hunter, and I never got around to uploading it here. I know a bunch of you have read this already on the D/L forum, but now it's available for the rest of the world. Pure humor! And again it is a one-shot – what happens next is supposed to be left to the readers imagination.
Letters
Dear Danny,
I'm writing you this letter with the single intent of clearing my mind. There are some things I need to say, and I can't say them in person.
You drive me crazy. Do you know what you do to me? I'll tell you what happens when you come around.
My mouth feels fuzzy, like it's stuffed with cotton. Not a pleasant sensation, given that it reminds me of having my wisdom teeth taken out.
My stomach gets that feeling you get when you are at the very top of a roller coaster and the cart pauses; as you look down and see the track, you know what's coming. I always hated roller coasters. I would only go on a dare, and sometimes when you look at me, I feel like you are daring me. To do something
My head feels light, bobbing in the air, as if it were a balloon in the slippery grip of a child who just ate melty ice cream.
My legs turn to rubber when you are around. Walking is tedious. If I fell, would you catch me?
If you are wondering why I didn't mention my mind, well, it's because I have totally lost it.
Overall it's like having the flu. Now, after all these years, I understand why they call it "lovesick". I'm tired, I'm cranky, and I have no appetite. I toss and turn all night long and can't get comfortable. Only I can't go to the doctor for this, and chicken soup or cough syrup won't cure me. The only thing that can cure me – you – is responsible for making me feel this way to begin with.
-Lindsay
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Standing in the lab, Lindsay reads over her letter one more time. She keeps glancing over her shoulder nervously, but her only companions are the printers and copiers which hum like busy honeybees. Biting her lip, she knows what she has to do.
She stuffs the note into the giant, industrial paper shredder, then turns on her heel and walks out of the room. It was done.
Dear Lindsay,
Damn girl, you know how to work me over. In fact, I think you are trying to kill me. Look, I have been in this business longer than you have. I know intent and motive when I see it.
Do I need to remind you of all the ways you get to me? You showed up at the subway wearing that dress, your hair all wavy. Then you expect me to function around you? You drag me out to some jazz club, and I'm as nervous as an eighth grader, thinking it's a date. If you ate that spider just to impress me, then I'll admit it; yeah, it turned me on. And let's not forget the incident on the rooftop. There I am, holding you and feeling your hands on my neck. I didn't sleep at all that night.
This is first degree murder, slow and agonizing. Do you enjoy this type of torture? I guess I can't say that I entirely hate it, either.
I never let women have this control over me. But you got me: hook, line, and sinker. Not only are you downright gorgeous, but you're smart, and independent, and did I mention your body? Yeah, I notice those low-cut shirts. And the thing that scares me most is that even though I want your body (trust me I do), I want the rest of you, too. I want your heart and your mind.
What the hell is wrong with me? Writing a love letter, like freaking Shakespeare or something. Monroe, you will be the death of me.
-Danny
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Danny throws down his pen, and grabs the letter. He grips it tightly in his sweaty palm, walking briskly towards the media lab. As he approaches the door, he sees Lindsay come flying out and then jet off in the other direction. He allows himself a few seconds for his heart to begin beating once again, then steps inside.
He quickly strides over to the paper shredder, a machine that can take him back in time twenty minutes, to before he wrote the letter. In goes the note, falling to its choppy death. Boom, Danny thinks.
Walt Owens has been a repairman for nearly thirty years. He can retire in 86 more days, and it is that thought that keeps him going. Thanks to his pension, he can live out the rest of his days on the City of New York's tab. He is already having a bad day. His wife has forgotten to pack his lunch for the first time ever. Thirty years of tuna fish and carrot sticks, how hard is that to remember? His first stop of the day is one of his least favorite places – the NYPD bureau of Crime Scene Investigation. There is more machinery in that place than he has seen in his entire career.
Walt signs in and gets his 'Visitor' badge, then is handed a work order a mile long. Jammed copier. New toner for laser printer #18. He decides to start in the media lab.
It never ceases to annoy Walt how people can be so blind.
They are scientists, in charge of capturing criminals, for heaven's sake! They were supposed to protect our children and grandchildren. Yet they would walk right past an orange sign labeled, "PAPER SHREDDER OUT OF ORDER". You can give them fancy degrees and expensive toys, but what people lack these days is good old-fashioned common sense.
He opens the machine up, replaces and then oils the blades. In the bottom he finds two sheets of paper with handwriting, unshredded. Well, he didn't get paid to stand here and feed them back into the machine. Time was a-wasting. He decides to teach them a lesson, then maybe next time they might read the sign.
Walt sets the two notes, side by side and face up, on the table. For all to see.